I knew it when the pain in my jaw started. I have a sinus infection.
I had an inkling when Logan woke up complaining about his hear. He has a double ear infection.
I had an idea when Megan's nose started looking a lot like her brother's did. She has a single ear infection.
We've got as many antibiotics as any one residence has the right to have.
The lesson - every time we go up "north" for our Thanksgiving plaguing to the other side of the family, we come home sick. Hammy, think I can sell that one?
I asked Logan if he wanted to go see Santa. He said "I'll go look at him, but I won't talk to him."
Megan, however had to be torn away from the line to see Santa this weekend. I took her back this morning to make up for tormenting her with the nerdy pediatrician. She couldn't wait for me to put her down on the floor. She was squirming to get out of my grasp. She wanted to get closer and didn't seem to think the other kid ought to impeded that. It was her turn. I placed her on her feet and she took off. She ran right up to Santa's knee giggling and squeaking.
The old guy with the authentic Santa beard and rosy cheeks leaned forward and said "Hi there little girl."
And Megan crumbled. She got down on her knees, threw her head down onto her hands and cried. I picked up my red-headed little girl and she rested her head on my shoulder, staring at Santa caustiously. She was whispering (rare for Meg) "No, no, Santa."
Once we were safely on the other side of the display fence, she happily called to the old guy and waved at him. A older woman next to us told Meg how pretty her hair was and that she understood how scary Santa could be. She whispered to me, this woman who was easily in her late 60s, "My mother forced me on Santa's lap one year and I've been afraid of old men every since."
Lesson learned - When it comes to St. Nick my kids are hands off. Bring 'em gifts. Eat the cookies. Just don't talk to me.
Logan was practicing his scissor cutting skills. He was making reindeer. I left the room to grab the box of tissues for our infirmary. Megan tore one of his papers. He got mad. I returned to the room to find his scissors about to close on a lock of her hair. I yelled out his name. He looked up startled. He put the scissors down. Hours later he was cooperating nice again.
"Honey?" I called him. "Why did you cut your hair?"
"I didn't," he said but his told the truth. He was trying to figure out how I knew he had done it.
I picked up the small chunk of hair resting on his shoulder. I held it out in front of him and let him focus his eyes on it. "Now, why did you cut your hair?"
"That's what you do with scissors," he said sheepishly. We talked about how it's not what you did with scissors and how his safety scissors could go into time-out for now. He still wasn't grasping the big problem with his little experiment so we went on a field trip to the nearest mirror. I showed him the spot where a little wedge of hair was missing - unless you wet his hair and comb it into place you scarcely notice it. I had to rearrange a few strands to prove my point.
"See," I showed him where to look. "How does that look?"
"I look adorable!" he said
Lesson learned: No problems with the boy's self-esteem to date.